Alligator In The Elevator
by Scribblesinink
Summary: After giving Tara the latest news from Belfast, Tig discovers it's not as simple to get out of St. Thomas as he might've expected.


**Author notes**: Written as a Yuletide Treat for showvillain/Zath_Chauvert. Thanks to Tanaqui for betaing.

**_Alligator In The Elevator_**

**_By Scribblesinink_**

Tig jabbed his finger repeatedly at the elevator button, eager to get away from the damned hospital. Place stank: a mix of disinfectant, sickness, and death. Death didn't scare him, but sickness—the thought of ending up in a place like this, helpless and at someone else's mercy—did. And he'd spent far too many hours hanging around in St. Thomas' hallways already, what with Gemma's ticker issues, Chibs being blown to smithereens, Juice getting shanked... He shuddered in disgust, even as the elevator finally dinged its arrival, longing for the smell of the clubhouse: leather, stale beer, old cigarette smoke. Hell, even the cheap perfume of the crow-eaters was better than this.

Still, he'd come because he wanted to give Tara the latest news from Belfast. He felt he owed her, after the way she'd bailed him out when he'd expected to rot in Unser's cell for a good while. Unfortunately for Tig, she spent most of her time working, now. _Missin' her old man, prob'bly_, he sniggered to himself, shoving into the elevator before the doors had fully opened.

As the cab started going down, he fingered the keys in his pocket impatiently, huffing softly to himself. Like he'd stop riding because that cancerous coot had taken his license...!

The elevator jolted to a halt again, pulling Tig from his thoughts. He reckoned he'd only gone down one floor, and he drew his brows together as the doors started to open, ready to discourage whoever'd dared call _this_ elevator from joining him in the cab. The woman—Tig recognized her as Tara's boss, which only served to deepen his scowl—flinched when she saw him. But she visibly steeled herself and, giving him a stiff nod of acknowledgment, stepped across the threshold and turned around to face the doors as they quietly swished shut.

_Dammit._ Tig glared at the back of her head. Was he losin' his touch? Used to be, one look would've guaranteed him the cab to himself.

He took a step toward her, crowding her. She stiffened a little further, but she held her ground. "Kinda late to still be here, innit?" he growled softly.

She swallowed. "Some of us have jobs which carry a lot of responsibility."

_Huh._ Tig frowned. Though he thought he'd detected a quiver in her voice, he was unsure if she was simply giving him an answer—or if there was a veiled jab at him or the club in there.

Before he could make up his mind either way, the elevator gave another unexpected jolt. Then the lights went out, plunging them into darkness. For an instant, Tig was sure he was gonna plummet to death in a goddamn elevator, and he cursed out loud; he'd always expected he'd die on the bike, or at least from a bullet.

The next moment, the elevator shook again, shuddering violently and Tara's boss—Murphy, Tig abruptly recalled her name—lost her balance. She half-fell against him and he shoved her off, none too gently, as the emergency light blinked on, casting a sickly green light over the cab. With the light came the realization they couldn't have fallen more than a foot after all: the sensation of going _down_ had been caused by the sudden darkness.

"What the fuck...?" he asked, the remark directed at nobody in particular.

In the green gloom, the Murphy woman shot him a look that was a mixture of disbelief, fear and exasperation. "The power went off."

"Ya think?" he snarled back. Like he hadn't noticed. Did she think he was retarded? "How the hell do we get outta here?" He squinted at the various buttons, before pressing his thumb against the one for opening the door. Nothing happened, even when he stabbed the button several times more. "Hey!" he shouted, pounding the doors with his fists, before trying to jam his fingers into the slight crack between them to force them open.

"Um," the Murphy woman muttered from behind him, "I don't think that'll do any good."

Tig quickly had to admit she had a point. Hitting the doors had only made his hands hurt, while there was no way he could get a good enough grip to pry them open. He wished he'd brought a crow bar. But how could he've known he'd need one of those at St. Thomas?

_Moron!_ he mentally smacked himself. He might not've brought a crow bar, but he did have his knife. Reaching for the blade in its scabbard on his belt, he took a little satisfaction from hearing a sharp intake of breath from the Murphy woman as he pulled it free. Wedging the blade into the crack as far as he could, he wriggled the knife backward and forward, hoping to create a big enough gap to shove his fingers into. But in spite of all his efforts, the doors didn't give, and the only outcome was likely to be a snapped blade. "Fuck!"

Murphy sniffed. "Do you mind?"

"What?" He swiveled around to glower at her in the greenish cast from the emergency lighting.

"Cussing isn't going to get us out of here any faster."

For a few heartbeats, Tig merely stared at her. Then he barked a harsh laugh. "Feels good, though." And for good measure, he rattled off a half dozen of the foulest oaths he'd picked up over the course of his life. But if he'd expected the prissy bitch to crumple before him at that, he would've been sorely disappointed: she merely rolled her eyes and waited until he needed to catch his breath.

"Let's try this, shall we." She reached around him and pressed a yellow button, one with a little bell on it. Though she held it down for several seconds, nothing happened. Her brow furrowed. "Hm."

Tig snorted. "What's that supposed to do, huh? Call the butler?" He guffawed at his own joke.

She shook her head, not laughing with him. "It's the alarm button. I suppose it's also no longer working." She took a deep breath and slowly released the button. "We'll just have to stay calm and wait. Someone'll come." And as if that was the end of it, she folded her arms across her chest and half turned her back on him again, gazing expectantly at the immovable doors.

Loudly sucking in air through his nose to let her know what he thought of _that_ proposition, Tig was forced to acknowledge he was also out of ideas. But if he had to wait, he'd do so in as much comfort as possible. Lowering himself to the floor, he leaned back against the wall, drew up his knees, and used the knife to start picking at the engine grease lodged under his fingernails.

o0o

An hour later, by Tig's reckoning, nobody had come for them yet. And it was getting hot and stuffy in the small space; Tig could feel sweat trickling down his back, and his throat was parched. He'd pounded on the doors a few more times while they waited, but it was as if the hospital was deserted and nobody could hear them. Okay, it had to be close to midnight by now, but someone should still be there. Shouldn't they?

"What kind of place are you runnin' here?" he growled at the Murphy woman, not really expecting an answer but needing to give voice to his frustration.

She'd admitted defeat and slid down to join him on the floor some thirty minutes ago. Probably, Tig had snickered to himself, after she'd realized he could see right up her skirt from where he was sitting. Not that he cared much for the stuck-up bitch or her white cotton panties. Now she cast him a look that was more weary than wary and, with a sigh, closed the file she'd been reading and put it back into the slim briefcase she'd been carrying. "It's late; most of the staff have gone home for the night. And those still around are likely busy with the patients." The last came out slightly challenging, as if daring Tig to object.

He opened his mouth to do just that, and then snapped it shut again without saying a word. Some day, he could very well end up here himself. And, he grudgingly admitted to himself, the staff _had_ taken good care of Gemma and Chibs. Instead, he merely gave her a wordless grunt in response—let her make of that what she wanted.

Another five minutes passed. Tig, never the most patient of men, clambered back to his feet and started pacing: two small steps one way, two back. "What about security? Maintenance?" There had to be somebody, hadn't there?

The Murphy woman shrugged and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if she had a headache. "Busy elsewhere, I guess."

Tig snorted. "So we just get to wait until we die of starvation or thirst?" Goddamn, what he wouldn't give for a cold beer right now...!

She huffed. "That would take days, if not longer. I'm sure they'll have gotten us out before then."

"Yeah?" He slammed his palm flat against the wall, relishing the dull rattle it caused. "I'm not gonna wait for that to happen." Getting up and stepping over her legs—more shapely than a hospital bureaucrat had any right to, he absently noted—he began to pound at the cab's doors again. "Hey! We're in here! Open those goddamn fucking doors!"

"Help!" Murphy's voice added to Tig's came so unexpectedly that he found himself speechless for a few seconds.

"Help?" he repeated in a softer voice, incredulous, realizing she'd gotten back to her feet as well.

She shrugged at him, looking a little bashful. "I do want to go home as much as you, Mr...?"

"Tig," he offered, before he could stop himself.

She smiled slightly. "Mr Tig."

Tig groaned, shaking his head. "No. Just Tig. Tig. Jezus."

Her mouth quirked further, and Tig swore again as it dawned on him what he'd just said. But she didn't use his own words against him. Instead, much to his shock, she held out her hand. "Margaret." He stared at the hand wordlessly until she dropped it. "Um..."

"Got any more ideas, _Margaret_?"

"Maybe one." She tilted her head back and pointed up. "See that?"

Tig craned his neck and let his gaze follow her finger. In the dim light, he could see the squarish outline of some kinda hatch in the ceiling. "Yeah. What about it?" It might get them out of the elevator cab, but then they'd be just as stuck in the shaft.

The woman at his side heaved a breath. "I suspect we're stuck between floors. That's why the doors won't open. But if we can get up there, we might be able to force open the doors on the floor above us."

Dropping his head back to a normal position, Tig gave her a look that was part incredulity and part admiration. "And you only just thought of that now?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "I didn't say it'd work. But—," another shrug, "it's starting to look like we'll have to help ourselves here, Mr—Tig."

"Right," he agreed grudgingly, before bending his knees and launching himself toward the hatch. He grazed its surface with his fingertips, but fell back down before he could do any damage. The cab shook ominously with the impact of his landing.

Murphy squeaked, "Don't do that! We've got to climb up."

"And how do you suggest we do that?" There was no ladder in the elevator and nothing to step on except the hand rail running along the walls. Tig didn't think he could manage to balance on _that_ long enough to shove open the hatch.

The old dragon pondered for a second, before she kicked off her pumps. "You gotta give me a boost up."

"What?" Tig stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "You really think—?"

She rolled her eyes again. "If you have a better idea...?"

Grumbling to himself, Tig had to admit he didn't. Though the idea of putting his fate into the hands of some woman bureaucrat didn't sit well with him, he could hardly suggest they switch roles, could he? He snorted a laugh at the mental image that invoked, but his amusement quickly faded. "Well, okay." He positioned himself under the hatch and folded his hands together, holding them low enough that Murphy could plant a stockinged foot in them, before he boosted her up.

She wasn't a very tall woman, but she turned out to be heavier than she looked—or perhaps it was a result of her wriggling about while trying to get the hatch open. Either way, Tig ended up grunting with the effort, arm muscles straining to hold her. "Hurry up," he half-gasped.

"Hang on. I think..." Her voice trailed off a moment. Then something clicked, and she let out a little noise of triumph. "Got it."

"Hey...!" he protested as the next instant, he found himself being used as a human climbing wall. Instead of dropping back down, Murphy scrambled up further, putting her other foot on his shoulder and bearing down on him for a second, before her weight mercifully lifted. Tig stumbled slightly, and then caught himself. Squinting up after her, he was rewarded with another flash of her white panties as she kicked and pulled herself through the narrow hatch. The elevator shook again and, unwillingly, Tig sucked in a breath. But then the cab steadied, and Murphy's grinning face peered back down at him, framed by the edges of the hatch.

"Your turn."

He glowered at her. How the hell did she think he was gonna climb up there? He was about to give her another tongue-lashing, when the elevator lurched again—this time for no discernible reason. His heart jumped into his throat. The next instant, the lights came back on, so bright he had to scrunch his eyes to slits. Above him, Murphy squealed, "Oh my God," and Tig discovered they were moving again.

"Get your ass back down here," he snarled, an image of her getting squashed between the shaft's ceiling and the cab flashing across his brain, before he remembered they'd been on their way down. The next moment, anyway, she came tumbling back into the cab in a flurry of tweed skirts and flailing stockinged legs, accidentally kicking him in the gut as he tried to catch her.

"Oomph!" The air went out of him.

"Sorry," she muttered, untangling herself from him, before scrambling back to her feet and searching desperately for her pumps. Somehow, she managed to smooth her skirt at the same time. Tig found her second shoe and held it out. She snatched it from him with a quick, "Thanks," and slipped it back onto her foot the very second the elevator doors started to open. By the time they were fully open, and Tig could see a receptionist and some maintenance guy in coveralls peering anxiously into the cab, she'd tucked the briefcase under her arm, and had fully returned to being the stuffy hospital administrator who'd joined Tig on the fifth floor.

_Well_, he amended mentally, grinning to himself, while at the same time scowling darkly at their rescuers, _except for the smudge of grease tracked along her cheek, or the run in her pant__yhose_.

But he'd be damned if he'd tell her about that.

**Disclaimer**: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series _Sons of Anarchy_. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without the author's consent.


End file.
